Thieves Till We Die by Stephen Cole

Coldhardt. ‘You, Patch and Con.’
    Patch sighed. ‘If it’s a radiation-free zone, I’m happy.’
    â€˜What about me?’ asked Jonah. ‘My head’s feeling much better this morning. I can go too.’
    â€˜I need you here to finish work on the computer setup.’ Coldhardt looked graver than Jonah had ever seen him. ‘There are things I need you to do. We can’t afford to be exposed now.’
    To Patch’s eye, being in Santa Fe was like falling through a time warp. Everything was built like it was really old, kind of Spanish-looking and muddy. The car parks were done out in red-brown clay, and even the petrol stations were disguised as ancient Native American monuments.
    But the only building that mattered right now was the penthouse.
    They drove into the city in Con’s powder blue Porsche 911. She couldn’t drive, just loved to be seen in it – as did Patch and Motti. But today they sat as quiet as the ride, not getting off for once on all the stares and jealous looks thrown their way as they cruised along the streets.
    Normally, it was Tye who did the driving.
    Patch looked up from his Game Boy and saw some kids their age hanging outside a bar. One boy eyeballed Motti. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘D’you steal that car?’
    â€˜It’s
my
car,’ Con informed him. ‘And as a matter of fact it’s about the only thing I
didn’t
steal.’
    Motti razzed away the moment the lights changed and left the kids eating Porsche dust. ‘Gotta spend your money on something,’ he reflected. ‘Gotta enjoy it while it lasts. ’Cause you never know when the high life’s gonna end.’
    â€˜Never know when life’s gonna end full stop,’ said Patch gloomily, holding his stomach.
    â€˜Throw up over my car and it ends right now,’ Con promised him.
    They stopped near a quiet pizza parlour where Con’s charms and talent got them some useful props – including a delivery van. Then the recce began.
    Motti dressed up as a pizza delivery guy – possibly the grouchiest pizza delivery guy in the whole world – and took a big box up to the penthouse on the top floor. No one had answered his banging on the door, so he’d pretended to call his boss, all the time taking pictures of the locks and alarms and stuff with his phone-camera.
    Patch studied the evidence, worked out which tools he would use, while Motti worked out the best way to bypass the alarms. Con, meanwhile, sat in the back of the van, stuffing her pretty face with decoy pizza all afternoon while she kept watch on the penthouse. The few people who came and went didn’t show at any of its windows. She was fairly sure it had stayed empty. No sign of Tye.
    Finally, once Motti had returned the van around nine that evening, they were ready to move. Patch felt the familiar drill of nerves building in his stomach as they walked along the street.
    â€˜Reckon it’s the place next door we gotta worry about,’ Motti told Patch as they pulled up in the Porsche a few blocks away, outside one of the ten billion art galleries crammed into the city. The sun was setting, and the mountains on the horizon glowed with fierce red light. ‘These two huge guys came out from inside just as I’d finished casing. They did not look happy to see me.’
    â€˜They were probably in the mood for a Chinese,’ Patch suggested.
    â€˜Or perhaps they thought you were lowering the tone of the place, yes?’ Con had changed from jeans and T-shirt into a smart, chic business suit with killer heels. She looked like she owned the whole building.
    â€˜I’ll go in through the front way,’ said Con, ‘persuade the man on the door that we have every right to be here, yes?’
    â€˜Signal when it’s safe,’ Motti agreed quietly.
    There were security cameras in the communal hallways on each floor, monitored from the main